


Everything in Slow Motion

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [18]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara can’t shake the thought that maybe, maybe she’s still dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything in Slow Motion

**Author's Note:**

> for Myopicfriend, who prompted: twelve/clara post-LC, first time, kicks off because he stands behind her and kisses her neck.

Clara can’t shake the thought that maybe, maybe she’s still dreaming.

She soaks in details. Everything is important. The smell of the TARDIS, books and burnt conduit and, what, rosemary, maybe. The faint ache in her ankle from her whoops-that-was-the-last-step incident on her apartment building’s staircase yesterday. The faint ache in her heart from Danny. The metal and molded plastic of the console, textures, the sharp edges of things. The newspaper tossed onto the bench from January 17th, 1982.

The Doctor, of course. His particular shambling assemblage of details. His coat still damp from the snow, that wet-wool smell. Hair gone haywire, boots trailing muddy footprints. The face he makes when the ship balks against his requests. The face he makes when he looks at her.

And it’s odd, isn’t it, because she’s dreamt about him looking at her like that. The open affection and searching glances, the tension thick in the air. She should doubt it, she should, she should doubt this is real because he’d never, he wouldn’t. They - they don’t do this.

But then again: his nerves, her uncertainty, they never carry their baggage like this in dreams. The slow circle he’s making towards her, flipping levers and pressing buttons, pretending it’s just coincidence that his path is taking him closer, closer. Just routine maintenance, just coordinates laid in. As if he isn’t jittery, shaky, filled up with the potential of this moment. 

The other option of course is that they aren’t dreaming, but he’s not doing what she thinks he is. She could be misreading him, she’s done it before. She should know better than to get her hopes up.

And then he stops, a hair’s-breadth away from her. She could turn to face him, she doesn’t. She won’t. What would happen, what would she see? Turn around and the possibilities narrow down to fact. Schrodinger’s sexual tension.

He puts his hand on her shoulder. She stares at it, details again: wrinkles, small hairs, his ring a little loose. His thumb rubbing circles on her neck. Slowly, she reaches up and puts her hand on his, lets their fingers intertwine. They stay like that for a while, quiet. The penny about to drop. She thinks of a hundred things to say, she says none of them.

He’s the one to break the silence, like he usually is, and it’s just her name. _Clara._ Softly, hesitantly, like it’s a precious thing reluctantly given. A secret, almost. She feels him shift, press into her slightly. Her hand tightens its grip on his, holding it there. That’s permission enough, she figures.

She knows before he moves that she should tilt her neck. A target, an open invitation. The penny drops. She bares her neck to him and he obliges, leaning down and pressing his lips against her skin, dry and cool and a whole lotta nothin’, except. Except it’s him, and it’s her, and he’s bending to position himself better, pulling her hair aside, and this is really happening, these are facts she will be able to recall later, these feather-light kisses up along her jaw, his hand in hers, the scritch of his stubble, the TARDIS beeping gently but insistently.

He could do this all day, very probably, this slow deliberate exploration of her, the emotional weight of what they’re doing kept hidden. So she does what she always does, which is call him out on his bullshit - _look at me_ \- and she turns, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him. His arms flail, coming to rest finally on her lower back. He kisses back. Mouths open, one or the both of them moaning, just a little, a rumble in their chests. The TARDIS beeping contentedly.

And they’re not dreaming, obviously, because in dream their teeth don’t click against each other, and she doesn’t have to pull back to wipe drool off her chin. That’s fine, though. Reality’s better.


End file.
